drug

I have this interesting problem. I have trouble just sitting here and
writing things that make sense. I can type for hours, rambling on about the
nonsensical, but as soon as I try to incorporate any actual fact, things go
haywire. I lose all semblance of reality and I begin to spiral towards the
earth in an uncontrollable dive made up of prose and verse. It's an
editor's nightmare.

Get up, clean up. Sit on the edge of the bed, and clear your head for a
second. Try to separate the drone of the alarm clock from the chirps of the
birds outside. Turn the lights on. Turn the lights off. It's like ritual

The irritating whine of the alarm clock slowly comes to the forefront; it wasn't a
priority before, but it has finally made its way through the cracks from
your sub-conscious to your conscious. Moving to hit the snooze button with
more than enough force and drama, you lie there and look at the glowing
digital face blankly. Not blinking, a single tear swells and erratically
slides down your cheek. As the fog in your head begins to dissipate, you
start to comprehend what you're staring at. Not one to generally proclaim,
you calmly proclaim "Fuck." Class starts in 15 minutes.

Several options present themselves at this point. You could rush, and get
to class only a few minutes late. You could get up, have a shower, eat some
breakfast, and get there for the class after; or you could put on your
bathrobe, go outside and smoke a bowl, and then lie on the lawn and let your
dog lick your nuts until you're forced to move because you don't want to
shit all over your bathrobe. Fuck that other stuff, showering is over-rated
anyway.

Pulling some underwear on, you can't help but entertain one of the
insignificant thoughts that cross through your mind. "What the hell did I
do yesterday?" Pausing only briefly to contemplate you are again
distracted, this time by a strange odor. Realizing that your dog probably
hasn't gone to the bathroom in longer than you have, you wander downstairs
never having reached a conclusion.

Now, the bathrobe is an incredible thing. Its soft and thick enough that it
will keep you warm in the cold, yet open enough that it provides sufficient
circulation to keep you cool if you are too warm. It also has no
complicated buttons or zippers to confuse you. Good thing too.

Having finally make it downstairs you find the source of not only the smell,
but also of a whimpering noise that you hadn't bothered to hear until now.
Opening the screen door loudly with your foot, the dog shoots out into the
yard like only a dog of that stature can.

Looking down at your shoeless foot, you notice that there is a large cut on
your ankle. Whatever, pack a bowl.

Hot fuck, now isn't that better? Who needs life, this is fucking
incredible. Ah, now you remember how you cut your ankle. You were playing
with a switchblade and trying to get stoned at the same time. Something was
bound to be dropped. Thank god it was the knife and not the bud.

What the hell, how did you get on the lawn? Doesn't matter. Lawn is good.
I mean, everything's green... The grass is green, the sky is green, even the
sweet smell produced by the green plant you just burned comes as a green
haze.

Count Grass. Can't, the dog is chewing on your ear. Fucken dog, always
gets hungry when it's stoned. Should give it acid some time. That would
show the stupid little shit.

Hours pass. The sun comes up slowly, and you can feel its effects on your
back. The only noises come from the leaves gently bending against
themselves and the occasional satisfied grunt from the fat bitch lying next
to you who was earlier chewing on your ear.

It's getting harder to focus. Eyes still closed, you open a jar next to
you. Immediately it escapes, a new and almost equally intense smell. Pack
another bowl, repeat.

Ignorance really is bliss. There's something to be said for living in a
situation where your biggest perceived concern is how you're going to find
some grass to lie on when you're 40 and your parents grass is dead.